“Ah,” said Marchand, “he died in the arms of victory! He called for Desaix, Lannes, Duroc. I heard him order up the artillery, and then he cried: ‘Deploy the eagles! Onward!’”
“I shall never forget,” says Stewart, “Marshal Bertrand coming out of the room and announcing, in a hollow voice, ‘The Emperor is dead,’ the last word being accompanied by a deafening peal of thunder.”
Napoleon had made his preparations for death with the composure of an ancient pagan. He had given minute instructions to all about him as to their duties when he should be gone, and had directed an autopsy of his body in order that the true character of his disease might be known, for the benefit of his son. He inquired of the young priest whether he knew how to arrange the death chapel; and he dictated the form of notice which should be sent Sir Hudson Lowe when he, Napoleon, should be dead. In his Will, written by his own hand, he set out an elaborate list of legacies, including those who had befriended his boyhood, and those who had been loyal to him in the days of his power, as well as those whose fidelity had been the comfort of his captivity and dying hours. From his mother and nurse to his teachers and schoolfellows, his companions-in-arms and the children of those who had died in battle at his side, to the Old Guard and the faithful few at St. Helena, he swelled the debt of gratitude, and honored himself in remembering others. In regard to this Will, it may be of interest to state that only a small portion of the vast assets Napoleon claimed to have left in Europe could be found by his executors, and that during the second Empire the State voted $1,600,000 toward the unpaid legacies.
Given the funeral of a general officer, his unmarked coffin was borne by soldiers down into the little valley, where was the willow, under which he often rested, and the spring whose waters had so refreshed him in the fever of his long decline. Here he was buried, May 8, 1821.
* * * * *
One day, at St. Helena, there was a stormy interview between prisoner and jailer, between Napoleon and Sir Hudson Lowe. The book from Hobhouse had been kept by the governor, and this and many other things the captive resented.
“I detained the book because it was addressed to the Emperor,” said Lowe.
“And who gave you the right to dispute that title?” cried Napoleon, indignantly.
“In a few years your Lord Castlereagh and all the others, and you yourself, will be buried in the dust of oblivion; or, if your names be remembered at all, it will be only on account of the indignity with which you have treated me; but the Emperor Napoleon will continue forever the subject, the ornament of history, and the star of civilized nations. Your libels are of no avail against me. You have expended millions on them; what have they produced? Truth pierces through the clouds; it shines like the sun, and like the sun it cannot perish!”
To which proud boast, Sir Hudson Lowe replied, as he records, “You make me smile, sir.”